


smoke and fire

by OhMaven



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8395096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhMaven/pseuds/OhMaven
Summary: A series of one-shots exploring the evolving relationship between Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye.





	1. Bullet

If the days in Ishval were hot enough to scorch, the nights were cold enough to freeze. They were also far, far, too long for Riza Hawkeye’s comfort. When the sun was shining she had purpose; the work involved a great deal of discomfort - both mental and physical - but it at least kept her mind from wandering. With the sun set, the snipers were retired to get whatever rest could be found here. Small fires dotted the camp, the largest of which hosted clusters of soldiers playing with battered cards, eating their dinners, servicing their weapons, or simply talking. Few were solitary, as hers was. Soldiers, she’d found, were a familial lot. They seemed to take solace in one another, a concept that she (by and large) found alien.

Riza was used to looking from the inside out. Her childhood had, for the most part, been like that. Other children had talked about their parents, brought them to family nights at the village school. Other girls had sleepovers. Riza had only had her father and his work. Even here, she was only a cadet - talented enough in soldiery that she had been sent to the battlefield before her class had graduated. Here, she was the Hawk’s Eye; a sniper who simply  _ did not _ miss.

So she refrained from the camaraderie and whatever comfort it might bring to the bloodied desert nights, keeping to her fire and her small meal, and the gun that never truly left her side these days.

The fire had almost died to embers, and the sky had darkened around the smoke-smudged stars and moon, and Riza had nearly nodded off, when someone else settled at her fire. The woman blinked a few times, willing her eyes to focus on the shadowed figure seated across the fire. “Sir,” she mumbled, still unable to identify the familiar frame, other than to identify it as male. Riza’s spine straightened, the hood of her coat sliding down the back of her head. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me why you’re here, Cadet.” The voice was low; it crackled between deep and sharp and it burned away the last of her sleep-addled confusion. Riza  _ knew _ that voice.

Roy Mustang.

“The Academy thought I was ready, sir. Too many losses have been sustained not to cut some of us loose before graduation.” She was grateful for the smokey embers between them; it was easier to answer if she didn’t have to look him in the eye.

“That isn’t what I meant,” there was an awkward pause. “Hawkeye.”

Of course it wasn’t what he’d meant. She’d known  _ exactly _ what question he was asking, in the intensity of his voice; in his very presence at her fire; in the pause before her name, a moment when she knew he’d wanted to call her  _ Riza _ . There was too much history between them  _ not _ to know.

“I am here for the same reason you are.” That wasn’t quite the truth, or rather, it was an extreme simplification of it. Roy Mustang had infected her with his idealism, with his conviction that this was the path to best help people with the alchemy she had given to him. Then he had left, and her entire world had gone dark. Oh, not inherently  _ because _ of Roy. In the wake of her father, her only friend, Riza hadn’t known what to do with herself. All her life, she had stood guard over the secrets of fire alchemy; either by caring for a father who barely valued her, or aiding the student who had practically been made of fire himself. With both gone, and the secrets literally burned into her back for safe-keeping...Riza had been adrift. Following Roy, pursuing his belief, had felt like the only real solution.

Riza knew that neither of them had anticipated his dream soaking up so much blood.

So she shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

A soft snort came from the other side of the fire. Roy Mustang knew her as well as she knew him. In the dark, he moved around the fire, sitting next to her. “I didn’t intend for you to become this, you know.”

Their fire - for it wasn’t just hers anymore - was far enough away from the others and he spoke softly enough that no one would overhear. Which was just as well, the tenderness in his words was  _ entirely _ inappropriate from a superior to a cadet. The words probably weren’t, either. Riza sighed into the silence that followed them. Neither of them had intended to become killers, but war was what it was.

Truthfully, she’d been as startled to see Roy Mustang with the eyes of a murderer as he’d been to see that same reality in her.

For long minutes, the pair of them sat and watched the fire die. Riza tugged her coat closer, as what warmth the fire had once provided faded away. Without breaking their fragile silence, Roy leaned forward and lightly snapped his fingers; the wood that hadn’t already burned away caught fire again, and the cheerful, sudden, light washed them in colors of orange and gold. “It’s nice,” he said quietly, “to be able to do something  _ good _ for a change.”

There was a world of bitterness in Roy’s voice, that he managed to cover with a veneer of lightness. War took a toll on everyone, but Riza knew the State Alchemists were breaking under the strain put on them. Few pursued the science with the intention of becoming a weapon. Roy Mustang certainly hadn’t. Even worse, the good that he could do as the Flame Alchemist was stripped by the fear and horror that was quickly becoming linked with his name. Fire was a horrible way to die, and the Flame Alchemist dispatched Ishvalans to a hellish fate with a snap of his fingers in wide swathes. Riza was probably one of the few who didn’t shudder at his approach.

Of course, she had memories of the man that went beyond the ignition gloves he wore on his hands, and that probably helped a good deal. It was the same reason he didn’t seem to look at her like she was an unfeeling machine like some of the other soldiers did.

Unable to stand the self-pity and loathing she could see in his face by the flickering firelight, Riza lifted her rifle. Roy watched with a wary eye as she took the weapon apart at their feet. Her movements were efficient, and practiced, and in a matter of moments she held only a bullet in the palm of her hand. Riza held up her hand, so that Roy could see it.

“This is a bullet, Major.” Her voice was soft, but steady.

Beside her, Roy snorted. “Trust me, Cadet, I’ve seen my share of  _ bullets _ .”

“It’s  _ just _ a bullet,” Riza continued as if she had not been interrupted. “Just a tool. Tomorrow, I might end someone’s life with it - but I’ll do it so that someone else will live to see another sunset. My bullet, and your alchemy, they don’t  _ define _ us. This war doesn’t define us. It’s what we do with our tools, and who we choose to protect with them, that does.”

Neither of them spoke again for a long time. Riza reassembled her rifle, and braced it against her legs once more. She didn’t like to be without it - one never knew when an assailant would creep into the dim glow of Amestrian fires and take a life. Because of her - because of Roy - the desert ran with blood. Neither of them would ever be clear of that guilt, would never live to see their hands clean again. If it was her job to take lives, however, she would take them as quickly and efficiently as she could; the faster this war ended, the sooner she could make the goal of her life atoning for the sins she’d committed here.

Beside her, the Flame Alchemist studied his hands. Riza pretended not to see the stray tears that glittered in the fire light. Even he deserved a safe place to break. She couldn’t provide much more than that, but she  _ would _ give him what she could.

After what seemed like hours, Roy stood, and glanced down at her. “Enjoy your fire, Cadet.”

“Yes, Major. I will.” She offered him the smallest of smiles, saw the corner of his mouth turn upward. “Thank you, sir.”

He turned away from her, and strode off into the darkness. Riza scooted closer to the warmth of the fire he’d left behind for her. They were both so different now, hardened by time, and war, and bloodshed. Still, she thought, maybe they still had pieces of themselves from a more innocent time. Perhaps it couldn’t be as obvious now, but they were still watching out for one another.

With her arm wrapped around her weapon, Riza Hawkeye let her eyes drift shut, absorbing the warmth of the fire Roy had left behind for her.


	2. Bunting

There were many things in this world that Riza Hawkeye did not understand.

For one, she couldn’t fathom what it was about alchemy that pulled people so strongly towards it; people like her father, or Major Roy Mustang. Oh, Riza knew about the rules and basics of alchemy. She’d grown up around it, even if only hovering from the corners peering in. It was inextricably tied up in her life, evidenced by the ink and fresh scars that marred her back. That said, she still didn’t  _ understand _ it, or what it was that compelled people to devote their lives to it - even after seeing what that power could unfurl in Ishval.

For another, Riza couldn’t grasp the celebratory nature of the country when Ishval had been all but burned out of existence. Of course, the military didn’t require understanding, only obedience, and it was much like her father and alchemy and all the other things she couldn’t grasp in that way. So there she was, in a square in Eastern that had been hastily cleaned and painted and made to look like it hadn’t just been through all hell; surrounded by colorful, patriotic, bunting and the full regalia that Amestris could produce. It was easy to see who had served on the battlefields and who had not. Those who, like her, looked gaunt and resigned under their dress blues had clearly been the ones on those front lines. Others, with full cheeks and cheerful smiles, had no  _ idea _ what was being celebrated.

That was something Riza Hawkeye understood all too well.

Her chest was tight, her jaw clenched, and if she hadn’t just spent several years training her hands to be steady  _ no matter what _ she knew the would be trembling at her sides. It was a relief to be stood at parade rest; rules were a place where Riza could hide. When she was standing like this, eyes glued to nothing in particular, it was easy to ignore the way she was so warm she thought she might actually be melting. It was easy to ignore the sharp prick behind her eyes that meant either a headache or tears. Rules held her rigidly in place. They served her as they always had. Off to her left a band struck up a jaunty tune; even though she hated it for the cheer, she clung to the notes, forcing her mind to register each one. It helped. Time trickled by slowly, and the more it did, the further away Riza’s mind went. The further it went, the more the horrors crept in.

Someone cheered; it sounded like an angry shout to the woman. She flinched, eyes going from unfocused to sharp in a moment - her head swiveled before she could stop it, looking for the target.

The target being a civilian child sat on her father’s battered shoulders.

Riza swallowed hard, trying to keep her composure as the rest of the crowd cheered - even the soldiers broke rank to join the raucous cries as the Fuhrer wound his speech down, and then the noise was deafening when he lifted his hands to indicate he was finished. Riza held herself in check until the ranks were dismissed, turning on a wobbly heel and walking away from the square as briskly as she could. There were too many people here, and she felt closed in - like she couldn’t breathe. Riza was moving so quickly, she didn’t even notice the officer who stepped into her path until her shoulder struck his middle, and her nose collided  with his arm. The woman shoved herself back, trying to school her face into a blank facade even as her hand snapped up into a salute.

  
“ _ Sir _ ,” her voice halted abruptly on the last consonant of the word. Of course she’d walked into Roy Mustang, and those narrowed dark eyes were seeing far more than she wanted them to. They always did. Riza lowered her hand slowly when he didn’t salute her back, or even speak. He was just staring, and it made her want to squirm in her boots. He’d always had such a powerful gaze. “I apologize.”   
  
The apology seemed to snap Roy out of his heavy observation of her, and his chin dipped once in acceptance. “It’s quite alright, Cadet.”   
  
“Lieutenant, actually.” Riza lifted her hand, possibly the only part of her not quivering like the last leaf of autumn, and waved it at the epaulets on her shoulders. The insignia wasn’t even twenty-four hours old - her promotion and symbolic graduation a reward for the  _ outstanding work _ she’d done during the war. She could feel her lips twist, just ever so slightly; Riza tried very hard to keep her private thoughts  _ private _ but it was difficult under Roy’s full scrutiny.    
  
“Ah, my apologies  _ Lieutenant _ .” Roy’s voice was warm, but only superficially. Riza found herself studying him in return. Despite the desert sun, he was  _ paler _ than she remembered; more angular in face and form. His eyes were intense, but seemed to struggle to focus. She realized that he was struggling with today - with the celebration - as much as she was.   
  
They stood there, awkward pillars of stillness in a sea of milling people. Riza wanted to say something -  _ anything _ \- to try easing his mind. She’d been able to do it once, months ago, at the side of a small fire he had started just for her. What was it she’d said then? That his alchemy didn’t define him?

Damn fools, the both of them, to  _ ever _ belief that.

Flame Alchemy didn’t just define them - it consumed them. The still-healing burns on her back were a constant reminder. Neither of them would escape her father’s work, or Roy’s actions, and although she’d only ever seen the destruction through the distance of her scope, Riza would be lying if she didn’t admit that the phantom screams of his victims didn’t wake her at night. “Major...are you alright?”   
  
He focused his gaze on her once more, almost as if he was surprised that they were still standing here - on this street.   
  
“I’m fine, thank you.” Oh, Roy Mustang was lying. Riza could see it from here, he’d never been able to fool her. At his sides, his fingers twitched - as if ready at a moment’s notice to bring his alchemy roaring to life. A nervous habit? “Let me buy you a drink, Lieutenant. To celebrate your promotion.”

Oh, now that was an offer Riza  _ knew _ that she should refuse - it wouldn’t be appropriate, the fraternization laws, and all. Still. If there was a time to blur the lines, it was when Amestris was drunk on its own genocidal success. She hesitated though, for a moment, long enough for Roy to convince himself she would say no - and then she nodded. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

Roy turned, shifting to walk beside her rather than block her path. The streets were loud. Many, like Roy’s friend Hughes, were jubilant about a return home - a return to normalcy. Others were just relieved to be alive. With the chaos in full swing, it was easy to justify moving closer to Roy - to speak quietly and know that she wouldn’t be overheard. “What will you do now?”

  
He didn’t answer right away, although she knew he’d understood what she meant. Without speaking, they seemed aware of a mutual shame surrounding their actions; their secret.   
  
“I don’t know yet.” It was an uncertain answer, and that’s how Riza knew it was honest. Roy rarely exposed a vulnerability to like that - it eased some of the tension in her body to know that he still trusted her, even after everything.   
  
“Me either.”

Roy didn’t look particularly surprised at that. Riza was a  _ good _ soldier, but that was more a reflection of her discipline and dedication than any inherent skill at obeying orders and carrying out the acts of war. With her nerves of steel, he’d spoken to her once (long ago now) about perhaps pursuing medicine. It was a path that another Riza might have taken; one not bound to flame alchemy as she was.

  
They fell into a companionable silence as Roy waved them in the direction of one of the shabbier bars off the square. It was full, and loud, but not crowded in the way that others were. He grabbed their drinks as Riza wound her way to a table in the back. It was only a few moments before he joined her, and slid a beer across the scarred table top.   
  
Neither of them were particularly good at opening up; perhaps that was why their ability to read one another had made them such easy friends in their youth. Roy didn’t have to tell her that he wasn’t sleeping; Riza didn’t have to explain that her voice was hoarse from the suppressed screams when she woke from her nightmares. If anything, Ishvala and the mutual understanding it gave them, had only heightened that bond.

After a few moments of rich silence, small talk developed; he inquired about her present orders, and she where he’d rather be stationed next (someplace green and cool and _ not Eastern _ ). If anyone had bothered to listen, the talk was innocent enough between acquaintances celebrating a promotion, but it felt  _ so good _ to talk about anything but Ishval and death.

Night had fallen by the time the pair exited the bar, and turned towards the barracks housing the Ishvalan veterans. They’d not gotten so far when the first  _ crack _ stopped Riza in her tracks, and colors streaked across the sky.

Perhaps the thing Riza understood the  _ least  _ was why anyone in their right mind would think fireworks an appropriate celebration for the end of such a horrible war. She hated the  _ pop _ , the way it made her scan buildings for the glint of an enemy’s scope.   
  
For Roy, the horror came a moment later, with the acrid,  _ burnt _ odor that pierced the night breeze. Riza heard the hitch in his breath moments before his arm tensed.    
  
“Major?” There was no response, only the wide-eyed stare and a curling of his fingers. “Major, are you alright?”   
  
What a stupid question.  _ Of course _ he wasn’t alright. Riza would have kicked herself if there’d been time, but she knew the moment was coming when his fingers would snap, and she couldn’t have that. Not again; not anymore.    
  
“ _ Roy _ .” Riza moved quickly, her fingers wrapping around his wrist, turning to face the man. She almost wished she hadn’t - his face was bone white. “Look at me, please.”   
  
It took an eternity, but the alchemist lowered his eyes to hers - recognition a flickering flame in the black depths. He dragged in a shuddering breath. “I...Riza, I-”   
  
“Me too,” Riza said quietly, releasing his hand and taking a small step back. “Me, too.”


	3. Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...this is another Riza POV. SOMEDAY I'LL WRITE ROY I SWEAR. lol Riza just flows a little better with the prompts I've had so far. 
> 
> (Actually, once I clean it up, the drabble I wrote at the NaNoWeen party last night is Roy POV now that I think about it, so you'll have that to look forward to!)
> 
> Also: PLEASE feel free to comment with prompt or plot suggestions! I really do love feedback from you guys. ^_^

It was a different kind of silence than she was used to, stepping over the threshold of her own home; to be honest, though, her father’s house hadn’t been home for some time now. The old place had always maintained its own air of quiet: Riza could remember only that, quietly existing until it was time for school. When she’d been old enough, she had begun filling the house with sounds of industry - chopping wood, scrubbing warped floorboards and walls that never lost that ingrained layer of grime. It had still felt so still, but at least even then she had known she wasn’t alone.   
  
Riza set the battered suitcase on the floor just inside the door, fishing around in her coat pocket for a flashlight. There was, of course, no electricity here anymore. Riza Hawkeye was nothing if not practical, and if no one lived here there was no point in paying for that sort of luxury. Her few visits home had been managed, ironically enough, with the flickering flames of candles and fireplaces.

When the leave given her between her return from war and receiving her orders had been handed down, Riza hadn’t wanted to admit to anyone that she had nowhere to go. Her father was dead. Her only old friend was a state alchemist and a major besides. Rebecca, the only other person she might have considered imposing on, was still wrapping up her final weeks at the academy. So the young woman had locked away whatever apprehension her father’s house held for her, and caught a train heading through her small hometown. The house was as she had left it.

Immediately following her father’s death, Riza had considered asking Roy to burn the place to its foundations. She would have told him that it was to eliminate any notes Berthold had left, but they both had known that anything of value remaining was carved in her flesh. The truth was, Riza hated this house. It had been cold and unfeeling, and she had existed to serve her father’s studies by eliminating his need to cook or clean or exist outside of his studies. No matter what Roy told her about Berthold’s final moments, Riza knew it had not been concern for  _ her _ that had prompted the old man. She hadn’t been too young when he’d marked her to understand that it meant she would be given to the promising student worthy of his master’s work. In guarding the secrets, she had become an object to be possessed.

It was her back, not her life, that had so concerned Berthold in his final moments. No more, and no less.

If this return home stirred any bittersweet memories, it was because of her father’s last student. The one to whom she, and her back, had been entrusted. Not because Berthold had found Roy worthy, but because in his final moments he hadn’t wanted his work to be lost forever.

Alchemists were, she knew, a prideful lot.   
  
With the strong beam of the flashlight to keep her from stumbling over any unanticipated debris, Riza nudged the door shut and with her suitcase back in her free hand, made her way to the kitchen. This was where she had spent the majority of her time, had put the most work into repairs, and the thick layer of dust that had settled over everything was almost a disappointment. It was a sizable room, with a wood stove and wide windows, and a table big enough for really any purpose you could possibly need (and a few of those at once). Riza could only imagine it had been purchased by her mother, for Berthold certainly had never needed it - or used it, in her memory.   
  
Riza settled her suitcase on the old, scarred, tabletop; feeling a gaunt smile touch her lips as she did so. Not  _ all _ of the memories here were bitter and tainted. After all, this had been where she had first (and most) known the boy who would later become her only friend. In a lonely, stagnant, childhood Roy Mustang had been an almost literal breath of fresh air. She could almost see the memory play out in front of her: a smaller, quieter (if you could believe  _ that _ ), Riza standing before the old stove - an apron tied neatly over her school dress. He’d been a few years older, stumbling downstairs for breakfast that first morning.

“Where is Master Hawkeye?” He’d asked her from the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You’re his daughter, aren’t you? Master told me about you last night. It’s nice to meet you - I’m Roy Mustang.”

Riza had been unaccustomed to someone so chatty, let alone someone so chatty in  _ her _ kitchen; a place she had dominated since she’d first learned to cook so that her father could concentrate more fully on his work.”Father doesn’t join us for meals,” she had simply said in her quiet voice. “It will be only us, Mister Mustang.”

He’d grimaced at the formality, but Riza would hide behind that for the first several months of his stay - preparing his meals and retreating to school or her chores or her room immediately after. Their introduction had been awkward, though, and sincere. Riza still treasured it, that moment of knowing that for at least the time Roy Mustang was with them, she would be a little less alone. Their friendship had never been as intimate as it might have been without her shyness and her father’s looming presence - but it had  _ meant _ something to her.

Tonight, on the first of several lonely nights in the carcass of the house she’d grown up in, Riza clung to the memory of that friendship as desperately as she did the flickering light of the candles illuminating the room.


	4. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang adds the most important piece to his team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry I haven't updated in about a month - I'm editing all the pieces I wrote for this during NaNoWriMo and you'll see them starting to crop up in the next week or so. ^_^ Don't forget to comment if there's anything you like in particular or that you'd like to see! ALSO, as promised, this piece is finally from Roy POV. >.> He is so much harder to write than Riza is.

He thought she was going to refuse.

In the weeks since the end of the Ishvalan War, Roy hadn’t seen Lt. Riza Hawkeye - sources told him that the newly promoted officer had been given a leave following the conflict to collect her belongings from the Academy and prepare for her new assignment. On one hand, it had made it easier to personally request her transfer to his staff. On the other, Roy had no way of gauging how she was going to feel about what was a glorified secretarial position. He also had no way of knowing if she ever wanted to see him again, although their last encounter on the eve of the post-war celebrations gave him hope that she didn’t hate him outright.

Which was, to be honest, something of a miracle in and of itself.

“Of course I do, sir.” Hawkeye’s was stoic; the expression he’d most seen her wear, although not usually when they were alone together. “I’ll follow you into hell, if you ask me to.”

Hadn’t she done just that? Roy sat back in his chair, feeling the burden of her acceptance more heavily than he had any of the others he had taken under his wing. This woman -  _ Riza _ \- had already followed him to the military academy; she’d followed him into Ishval where she’d saved his life on  _ at least _ one occasion. More than anyone else, he was bound to this newly-minted lieutenant and her soft eyes and hard mouth. Riza had given him the power to make the world a better place. He was giving her the opportunity to make sure he didn’t let her down in doing so. The Major found himself unable to verbally confirm her acceptance of his offer, so he simply nodded.

The soft click of her boot heels, the flawless execution of her salute, were visceral reminders of what he was doing. Roy’s eyes didn’t leave her as she turned, his vision only blocked when she closed his office door behind her. Riza had shown a remarkable faith in him, and he only hoped that he could live up to it. He could only hope that she would hold him to his promises - if anyone could, it was the Hawk’s Eye, and not because of her pinpoint accuracy.

Underneath that uniform she’d put on in his name, lived the little girl who had made him breakfast and watched him with so much hope. All those years, all those shared moments, and Roy knew that more than anyone else in the world, she was the one who could talk him back from the brink.

He stood from his chair, moved around his desk, and walked over to the chess board set on the other end of his office. Roy had always been fond of the game. He’d used it to help clear his mind, to out think his former master, to cause as little damage to his frayed nerves as possible. Now it took on a different meaning. Roy’s fingers ran over the pawn, the knight, the bishop, and the rook until they came to rest on the most important piece on the board - outside of the king himself. He picked up the queen, turning the piece over in his fingers. Riza was the queen; without her, the mission would be nearly impossible to complete.

It seemed that she wasn’t the only one with an unshakable amount of faith.


	5. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Mustang's new team sets out to take down a cell of alchemist terrorists - without their fearless leader. Roy is less than pleased.

“What happened?!” Roy Mustang was not a man who liked to have much outside of his careful consideration and control; despite the appearance he gave of being rakish and reckless, he was in fact, the sort of man who liked to know the layout of the board and the pieces at his disposal. Waking up on cold, hard, concrete with a coat draped over him was a bit outside the limits of his patience. The Major tried to sit up, only to be shoved back down by Second Lieutenant Breda’s meaty hand. Well, perhaps _not just_ because of the lieutenant’s hand. Roy felt like his head was full of painful rocks, jabbing his skull and brain simultaneously. He opened his mouth only to shut it again, and this time that hand clamped over his lips.

 _Insubordination_. That’s what this was. He might have resisted again, except he realized that the coat covering him was not his own. It was too small and, frankly, it smelled of vanilla and warm spices. Roy had spent too much time in the Hawkeyes’ kitchen not to recognize the source. If he was wearing Lt. Hawkeye’s coat, then it was because something had gone sideways.

In fact, the longer he was awake, the more it came back to him just how sideways this had gone.

It was a mission to rout a terrorist cell using alchemy that hadn’t been sanctioned by the state against the Amestrian military. They were facing people who shared his talents, and something had happened to reduce his team to working without him. Sideways indeed. So, Roy stilled, dark eyes drilling into the understide of Lieutenant Breda’s jaw. Where was Hawkeye? Why was he wearing her coat? More importantly, what the _fuck_ had happened?

Apparently, the alchemist had muttered the latter out loud, for his subordinate looked down at him with the sort of face that generally was truthful, and delivered what had to be the fucking understatement of the year. “It’s complicated, Major.”

Complicated. Perfect. _Of course,_ it was complicated.

Roy tried to sit up again – slower this time – and the hand that had restrained him shifted to assist in getting the Flame Alchemist upright. He realized, with a sense of dread, that he was sitting in a puddle of water. No wonder the team had left him here with Breda. He could almost hear his Lieutenant reminding him that he was useless when he was wet. Roy resented this; as if snapping his fingers was the only tool in his arsenal. As if he hadn’t been a soldier just like anyone else.

He really hadn’t been, though, had he? His shooting had been passable at best, and his combat skills were more a desperate fall back than anything. Roy could handle himself well enough but when compared to the collected skills of his team – particularly of his first and second lieutenants – well, he simply didn’t measure up. With a soft groan, he rubbed the side of his head, and peered over the concrete barricade he and Breda were crouched behind.

“Where are Havoc and Hawkeye?” Roy heard himself ask, voice more confident and sharp than he felt. “They were supposed to be my back-up, not the other way around.”  
  
“We didn’t count on the terrorists blowing a water main and soaking you and everything else.” The big man sounded like he was using someone else’s argument against him. Riza’s, without a doubt. That woman was the only one who really had any chance of standing up to him like this, without being unnerved by his stare or by his intensity.  


“I see. So, they went where, exactly?” Roy’s voice was soft now, but no less dangerous.

“They’re chasing down the one who blew the main. Falman went to secure Fuery’s position, and I was left here to make sure nothing happened to you.” Breda shrugged. “Lieutenant was insistent that we not drag you along, what with your head injury.”  


“My head is fine.” It wasn’t; Roy could feel the throbbing in time to his heartbeat. “I assume I was knocked unconscious during the explosion, then.”  


Breda’s eyes widened, and he flinched away from his commanding officer ever-so-slightly. “It’s…complicated, sir. Perhaps you’d better ask Lt. Hawkeye when we reach her.”

Well. That was an interesting response. Roy grunted and slowly pushed to his feet, hating the _squelch_ of his wet gloves against the wet concrete below them. It only reinforced the idea that he was _useless_ without his gloves, without his alchemy, without the one thing that he could do that no one else on this team could. Breda grabbed his elbow and pulled him to his feet. Roy had to admit he felt better standing, and better still when Breda pressed a gun into his hand. They could still help Hawkeye and Havoc; and that was the important part.

More than anything, Roy felt grumpy that he’d been separated from his subordinates to begin with. How could he protect them when they weren’t with him? If anything had happened to either lieutenant, he was going to have something (or multiple somethings) to say on the subject. Probably quite loudly. Preferably with some flame thrown in.

The two men began to advance towards the building they had initially identified as being the base of operations for the terrorist cell.

No sooner had the two men started up the steps to the entrance, guns drawn, then the earth-shaking sensation of alchemy rocked the otherwise quiet street. Roy felt fear twisting his gut. Felt it clench even tighter at the answering gunfire coming from within – and against his better judgment (and his head’s wishes) he charged through the open doorway and into the hall.  
  
“ **Lieutenant!** ” His below probably had drawn more attention than was reasonable to expect. Behind him he heard Breda sigh, but there was a familiar voice calling his name back from somewhere below them, and so Roy didn’t hesitate. He kicked in a door, and charged down the staircase on the other side. “These bastards – I’ll make them wish they’d never even _heard_ of water when I’m done with them.”

“If the Lieutenant leaves you anything to bully,” Breda pointed out.

It was a fair point; Riza was nothing if not efficient and he knew she’d like the way things had gone so sideways even less than _he_ did. They were only halfway down the stairs when another shout stopped them in their tracks. It was wordless. It was feminine. It was _certainly_ Riza. Roy made to take the next step, when Breda grabbed him by the shoulder. Insubordination again; it must be catching.

“She told me not to let you do that, sir.” Breda was apologetic. Roy wanted to point out that technically they all answered to _him_ but the truth was his right hand was the discipline of the team, and her judgment tended to be more sound than his in these situations anyway. He was the idealist, the leader, the man who wanted to enact change. She was the tactician, the realist, the one who would make sure he got to the top come hell or high water or _both_. Roy nodded, and instead allowed Breda to take point as they made their way down the stairs. It was dark, and he wished more than anything that he could snap his fingers and light the way. Damn stupid water main; these terrorists were bastards and more annoying than he’d initially given them credit for.

Footsteps sounded in the darkness. Both men tensed; the hammer pulled back on both of their weapons. Roy tensed, ready to pull the trigger when:

“Major?” Her voice was annoyed, but otherwise that crisp tone she used when she was being _professional_. Because no matter how long they’d been friends, or how oddly intimate their association actually was, the woman would never be anything _but_ professional when appropriate. Which, to Riza Hawkeye, was nearly all the time. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

Ah, resting. Is that what she called leaving her boss unconscious on the street? Interesting.

“You’re supposed to be watching my back,” Roy answered the darkness. “Which doesn’t at all explain why I woke up to Breda’s ugly mug.”

“Gee, thanks, Major.” Breda grumbled.

A moment later, light shone in his face; Hawkeye was carrying a flashlight. “We can discuss this later,” she informed her superior and her teammate. “Havoc’s got your alchemists all tied up – they’re not remotely on your level, sir. I’m not actually sure what they were hoping to gain, coming to Eastern. They wouldn’t have lasted five minutes against you.”

Which is probably why they’d incapacitated him so thoroughly – dousing him in water and knocking him unconscious. Roy had to admit, they were certainly clever, even if apparently not as powerful as they would like. If he wasn’t so damn irritated by it, he might even have been impressed. Maybe.

“How did you and Havoc take them down?” Roy asked as he rounded Breda and descended the last of the steps. He offered Hawkeye the jacket she’d laid over him before she had gone after their quarry. It wasn’t as though she’d gone by herself – she and Havoc had already settled into a complimentary working relationship, two crack shots who kept cool heads in a fight. But she hadn’t come down here with _him_ and that made him nervous.

“The usual way.” She wasn’t forthcoming, but the soft hiss that came from between her clenched teeth as she pulled her coat on told him that she hadn’t come through the experience totally unscathed. Roy frowned at her, but she ignored him and lead them across the basement to the corner where Havoc was waiting.

“So,” Roy said as he joined them. “Which one of these alchemists is the clever bastard who decided to knock me out?”

Behind him, Breda coughed awkwardly. Havoc avoided making any eye contact, and even went so far as to turn his back on Roy and check the security of the bonds he’d placed on the cell. It left Hawkeye staring at him with what many might have thought was her usual stoic expression – Roy could detect a hint of embarrassment around her eyes.

“I knocked you out, sir.” She didn’t sound at all apologetic, damn her, and it almost looked like Havoc’s shoulders were shaking with his attempt to repress laughter. “You’re useless when you’re wet, and not very good at admitting as much. I didn’t want to see you get hurt, or worse, throw off the mission.”

Well, damn.

Roy stared at this woman who was, if he was being honest with himself, both his right and left hands. If his own people could knock him out so easily, he’d really need to keep an eye out for those who didn’t have any allegiance to him whatsoever. In the darkness, he could see her uncertain smile though, and despite himself Roy forgave her the insubordination.

After all, when there was a standing order to shoot him in the back if he strayed from their chosen path, there was probably a clause that allowed her to put him on his ass whenever he was about to do something stupid.

Which was, to be honest, going to be an awful lot. 


End file.
